


Make Off With Your Old Flame

by kenthel



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Coffee date, Getting Together, Heist, M/M, Some Mature Humor, art and artists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29711805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenthel/pseuds/kenthel
Summary: Miya Atsumu works as a charitable events coordinator as his day job and has invited the artist, Kageyama Tobio, to contribute works to his event. Tobio has recently gone through a breakup with his muse and decides to donate all of his paintings to be rid of them. As Atsumu comes to know Tobio, he plans to personally ensure that he never sees a painting of his ex again.And if he's lucky, Atsumu may just steal his way into Tobio's heart.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 2
Kudos: 57
Collections: Haikyuu!! Valentine Exchange





	1. Make Off With Your Old Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amaikana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaikana/gifts).



> This work is a part of the Haikyuu Valentine's Exchange 2021. 
> 
> Amai, I hope you enjoy this fic. Thank you for the prompts - this fic is mostly related to the prompts senpai/kouhai bonding, one character comforts another, and characters moonlighting as criminals. I had a lot of fun writing this fic actually. I've never written Miya Atsumu before, but now it feels like we've become old friends in a way. 
> 
> To all reading, thank you.
> 
> Notes:  
> I don't really write Atsumu with the fanon English form of Kansai-ben. No problem with other people doing it, but it's not for me.  
> There's a little epilogue after the main story. It's silly. ^_^

The hall is full of naked men. Correction, the walls are covered with depictions of nude men in the form of paintings, charcoals, pencil sketches, you know. Art. Actually, upon further inspection, it’s more accurate to say that the art is of exactly one (1) man in different mediums, poses, and, well, _degree of exposure._

The look of unadulterated, abject horror that stretches taut the wrinkled face of the board chairman as he finds himself eye-to-eye with a larger than life flaccid penis makes Miya Atsumu smile with glee.

Now, Atsumu’s no connoisseur of the arts by any means, but that shit is priceless. He is, however, the charitable events coordinator for a company that rests on billions instead of laurels and is in charge of optimizing tax breaks for PR-friendly causes and such. There may be some personal influence on the selection of artists for this particular event, if Atsumu was being truly honest, but what can he say? LGBTQIA+ is good for business - no one wants to buy from heteronormative nuclear family perpetuators anymore.

Yeah, yeah, just because there’s a naked dude in a painting doesn’t inherently make it gay, Atsumu is well aware, but _he’s_ happy and that’s enough for him.

The all cis straight board stumbles down the hall with palpable anxiety, tripping over their words to describe the venerable showcase of artistic talent dedicated solely to the attention of one body.

“He’s uh, got lovely hair, that one,” one man says in front of a painting that’s only hands in red hair and smoldering hazel brown eyes.

“Doesn’t he?” Atsumu agrees, face set in sales. His smile persists as he talks. “This must be _Hands in Hair _.__ Bidding for this piece will start at 150 euros. Quite reasonable if you ask me.”

“. . .Quite,” the man replies, clipped.

The hall is lined with fiery hair like torches. Shining eyes with long fair lashes follow you around with a hint of mischief. Atsumu’s fingers twitch at his side with the desire to reach out and rub one of the freckles clean off a smiling cheek.

At the end of the seraphic gauntlet, the bulwark between the chairmen and freedom in the form of quaint post-postmodernism is the artist himself: Kageyama Tobio.

Atsumu meets his eyes to let out a casual greeting and trips over his own feet, words netted in his throat. The pixelated video conference they’d had to sort the details hadn’t prepared him for a broody pout and observant eyes and soft black hair parted down the middle of his forehead. And with a glimpse of his forced, awkward smile, the clouds part and Atsumu understands the appeal of the tortured artist.

His immaculately tailored blue three-piece suit holds him like a cage. He fusses with the starched collar around his neck and the cuffs on his wrists. He undoes the second button on his suit jacket. He shifts his weight in his new oxfords and winces.

“Atsumu-san?” Tobio asks.

Atsumu’s heart misses a step, even as his logical brain chirps a reminder that he always goes by his first name at work. He inhales a slow breath through his nose and glues his professional facade back together. He offers his hand. “Tobio, it’s good to finally meet you.”

“Thank you for inviting me. I look forward to working with you.” Tobio gives a half bow as he takes Atsumu’s hand gingerly, palms barely grazing each other before he releases. He wipes his hand on his thigh, eyes darting towards the encroaching horde of businessmen, and he bites his lower lip. He rebuttons his second button.

Typically, this level of uselessness ticks Atsumu right off, but he’s in a good mood today or something because he feels a pang of endearment, of all things. Perhaps there was more sambuca in his after lunch espresso than he thought. Or maybe it’s been a while since he’s gotten to play senpai.

Atsumu claps one hand on Tobio’s shoulder, ignoring the obvious startle and widened eyes, and takes Tobio’s hand back with the other. He leans in, a smile on his face and his voice dipped low, old friends sharing a secret or talking shit in a tongue none other in the room can wrap theirs around. He gives a firm handshake. “Do it like this. No one cares if your palms are sweaty. Leave the jacket with one button until you sit, then open it. You getting cuts from your new shoes?”

Tobio nods, standing very tall and very still.

“Relax,” Atsumu whispers, he squeezes Tobio’s shoulder until it lowers. “You’re going to be fine. I’m going to be with you the entire time, okay?”

“Okay.”

Atsumu turns and gives the signal for one moment to the nearest gentleman seeking an introduction. He releases Tobio and opens his jacket, digging into the inner pocket for his wallet. From within, he draws a hydrocolloid pad. Another pocket yields a compact multi-tool which he uses to snip the pad neatly in half through its packaging.

He presses the pads into Tobio’s hand. “After you make nice and shake everyone’s hand like I showed you, excuse yourself to the restroom and put these on your blisters. It’ll still hurt, but it won’t get worse, you get me?”

Another nod. He stows the pads away in his trouser pocket. “I understand. Thank you.”

“Great! Knock ‘em dead,” Atsumu says, giving a reaffirming clap on Tobio’s broad back.

Tobio tries to return Atsumu’s smile with far too many teeth and not enough natural eye crinkle.

So useless. Atsumu wants to press his thumb into Tobio’s mouth and see if his teeth are as sharp as his jawline. He truly wasn’t planning on losing his job today.

“Not like that.” Atsumu shakes his head and relaxes his features, a finger towards his own visage. “Neutral and aloof is in this season.”

Tobio’s face falls into a scowl.

Close enough.

Tobio works to survive the meet-and-greet. His handshakes grow steadily firmer as he gives them.

The unfortunate young CEO grimaces as Tobio’s fingers clench around his.

Atsumu oversees the event from the doorway to keep both rooms in view. The bored security guard beside him watches a fansubbed episode of Yu Yu Hakusho on his phone. Atsumu holds in a sigh. It’s like they’re asking to get robbed.

He nudges the guard with his elbow, working with honey instead of vinegar. “Hey, how’s it going?”

The guard straightens, slides an airpod out of one ear, and tucks his phone away. His smile is sheepish. “Uh, everything’s fine.”

“Thanks again for all your help yesterday. We wouldn’t have been able to pull it together without you,” Atsumu praises.

“It was nothing.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” He gives the guard a cavalier salute. “You keep on an eye on things around here for me? I’m off to the stage.”

The guard nods, taking the other airpod out to confirm. “Will do.”

  
The next item on the itinerary is one-on-one interview sessions. Atsumu is confident in this segment. The interviewer had been courteous enough to share the questions with the attendees ahead of time to speed the process along.

“Mr. Cage-yam-a,” she starts.

Atsumu wants to leap onto the stage and strangle her with the wire from the microphone. He wrote down the phonetic pronunciation of each of the artists’ names _and_ took her out for drinks for the sole purpose of practicing. His eyebrow twitches.

“It’s so great of you to come all the way to Italy to participate in our event. You’re twenty-four years old and you’ve already produced a great number of striking works. How many from your collection are you contributing to the auction?”

“All of them.” If Tobio is offended by the butchering of his surname, he’s not showing it. He sits, jacket unbuttoned, with his knees spread wide and a small white index card held in his long fingers.

“So generous! You must be a true philanthropist and a huge supporter of the cause, but tell me, why have you decided to donate so many pieces?”

“I don’t need them anymore.”

“. . .I see. Well, that’s very kind of you. We hope that your contribution will help us reach our annual goal. I’m noticing that several of your works depict the same model, are the two of you close friends?”

“No.”

That is obviously the wrong question, Atsumu thinks to himself. He bites the inside of his cheek.

The interviewer looks to Tobio to elaborate. He stares blankly back at her.

“Oh, just a professional relationship between artist and muse then. Well, for this piece here. .” The canvas depicts the redhead splayed across rumpled silk bed sheets and is aptly named _Bedsheets._ “Is there a particular meaning or message hidden in this work that you could share?”

“The theme is ‘feeling invincible.’”

The interviewer falters, looking from the extremely intimate painting and back to Tobio with her eyebrows knitted together. “O-oh, that’s, that’s a very. .um, powerful theme. .”

“Thank you.”

She indicates another painting, _City Sunset._ In this, the model turns from a brilliant cityscape sunset to gaze upon the viewer over his shoulder with feral intensity. “How about this one?”

Tobio pauses and checks his card, his lips pursed in a thoughtful pout. He looks directly towards the interviewer and replies, “This one is also ‘feeling invincible.’”

It takes every fiber of Atsumu’s being to not throw back his head in laughter. He settles for drinking in Tobio like a man at an oasis and considering just how _invincible_ he could make Tobio feel if given the night.

She is done with Tobio. Her smile is so fake that Atsumu can smell the plastic. “Well, it’s been great talking with you.”

“It’s been great talking with you too.” Tobio tucks away his cue card into his jacket pocket and sits with his hands clasped loosely on one thigh.

“You can go now.”

“Oh.”

Without further ado, Tobio leaves the stage and returns to his reserved seat in the front row. He swivels around and finds Atsumu. He mouths, ‘How was that?’

Atsumu is weak. He gives a thumbs up and mouths back, ‘Perfect.’

Tobio nods, accepting the feedback without further reaction, and rights himself in his seat.

The disappointment sinks into Atsumu’s gut like a knife. He’s supposed to look cute and happy when he’s praised by his senpai, damnit.

When the post-postmodern artist takes the stage next, Atsumu sidles out of his row to return to the gallery to peruse the works. He speeds through the other collections. He can’t remember why he invited these other people anymore.

He rounds the corner to enter Tobio’s hall and spies a familiar face openly gaping at _Hands in Hair_ with stars in her eyes and her pocketbook crushed in her hands. He circles around, staying out of her line of sight, his footfalls undetectable.

“Yachi Hitoka!” Atsumu calls out from directly behind her.

Hitoka jumps with a strangled squeak and drops her pocketbook on the floor. She scrambles to pick it up, babbling, “I-I’m just looking at the painting! This is such a lovely artwork that I certainly can afford without ousting myself to beg on the streets and eventually die alone with only a bust for company. Hahaha.”

She blends in well enough in her cream colored gown and glittering earrings, petite and unassuming, no one would look at her twice. Shame she can’t keep her mouth shut.

“Will you stop?” Atsumu asks. He pinches his nose to fend off the headache he’s getting just being in the vicinity of her anxiety. “It’s just me.”

Hitoka whirls around. Her long blond ponytail whips across the front of Atsumu’s jacket. She hugs her pocketbook protectively to her chest. She gasps and takes a series of steps back. “Miya Atsumu-san! I, I can explain- I’m not-”

“Well, I would certainly hope you’re not,” Atsumu implies. He towers over her. “This is _my_ event, after all.”

“I’m sorry!” She backs into the painting itself and pales. She jerks away from it as if she’s been burned.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for though, right?” he asks, voice lowered. He checks the ends of the halls for eavesdroppers, but it’s empty save for the guard that’s lost into his phone screen once more.

“Right.” There’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She keeps glancing back towards _Hands in Hair_ behind her. “But um, there’s no chance of making an exception for an old partner in-” She winces and backtracks. “-erm, _associate_ , is there?”

Atsumu hums and taps his chin. He shakes his head. “Look, bidding for this starts cheap and no one seemed particularly interested in it. Try and get it fair and square. If it doesn’t work out, we can talk, alright?”

Hitoka’s shoulders drop. “Okay. .”

“Cheer up, kid,” Atsumu says. He offers her his arm and she reluctantly takes it with a sigh. He begins to walk her back towards the auction hall. “Why are you so hung up on that piece anyway? Aren’t you a lesbian?”

“The heart wants what it wants,” she replies.

He laughs. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  
At long last, the auction begins. The auctioneer is a short man who can barely see over the podium, but he speaks a million words per minute and has absolutely no time for bullshit. He increments the price up by a logic that Atsumu can’t quite process.

When Tobio’s first piece up for sale is displayed, Atsumu tugs his fingers, popping the joints. He crosses his legs and uncrosses them. He lets out a sigh of relief when the price reaches €3000 and is sold with a bang of the gavel. He expects Tobio to turn and seek him out again, perhaps ask how that price was, but Tobio is completely disconnected from the process, scrolling through his phone.

No one bids on _Bedsheets_. The auctioneer steadily decreases the opening bid, but there’s no takers. It’s unorthodox for a charity event, which is more or less a glorified excuse to flaunt one’s wealth. The gavel is tapped instead and the painting is toted away.

In the suffocating silence of the room, Tobio dozes off on his hand. He leans dangerously close to his neighbor like he’s riding the subway. Beyond unfazed.

The auctioneer announces that the next work for auction is _Hands in Hair_.

Atsumu pats Hitoka’s thigh. She’s too busy white knuckling her bidding card to notice.

Before the auctioneer finishes his opening sentence, an older woman jumps to her feet and bellows, “Five thousand!”

“Christ,” Atsumu hisses.

“We have five thousand for the young lady in the front, do I see 5500? 5500? Do I see 5100? Okay, 5000 going once. 5000 going twice. Sold!”

Bang goes the gavel.

Hitoka’s soul creeps out from her body and leaves her a discarded husk of a woman. She whispers, “I didn’t even get the chance.”

“Bad luck,” Atsumu replies. He wraps his arm across her shoulders and gives her a squeeze. He speaks into her ear. “We’ll figure something out later, okay?”

“You’re sure?” she asks.

“Positive,” he reassures. “Head out for now, I’ll contact you.”

She blinks away her tears before they spill over and fixes her face. Deep breath. “Got it.”

Hitoka goes.

Atsumu leans back in his chair, the plan already coming together.

  
The gavel bangs for the last time of the evening. Empty chatter, scraping chairs, and clacking heels fill the room as it empties. Atsumu pays his due diligence bidding folks goodnight and kissing all of the right asses in all the right ways. It’s emotionally exhausting to shake the last hand and respectfully decline the last drink. Like anyone actually wants to be cooped up in cigar smoke and cognac for the rest of the night.

After the last good-bye, Atsumu dips into the bathroom. His shoulders sag. He massages the back of his neck. For someone so at home in the thick of cacophony, it’s soothing to be plunged into silence. The mirror doesn’t show his fatigue, thankfully. He spot checks his makeup and rights the wayward pieces of hair before returning to the auction hall.

Tobio is still seated in his cushioned folding chair, dead to the world.

Atsumu wants to pick him up bridal-style and tuck him into bed. He settles for taking out his phone and snapping a silent shot of his sleeping face. Not creepy at all. Phone away, he reaches out a hand to rouse him by the shoulder. Shake, shake. “Tobio? Wake up, Tobio.”

Tobio’s eyes fly open, lost and searching, and he takes a sharp inhale through his nose. He sits up. His hand falls from his face, its imprint a red splotch across his cheek. There’s a groggy confusion, mouth opening and closing, before arriving at a raspy, “Atsumu-san . . ?”

God, he must’ve been three dream levels deep to be this out of it.

“You were out like a light,” Atsumu teases. “You missed half your own auctions.”

He wipes the sleep from his eyes and rolls his shoulders. “Sorry.”

Atsumu pulls his hand back before Tobio notices it lingering. “You just flew in yesterday, right? Jet lag claims another victim.”

“I guess so.” He gets to his feet and looks around the room. Apart from the chairs and stage, the room is desolate - no art, no people. “Are they all gone then?”

“Ah, yeah, everyone cleared out about ten minutes-”

“No, the paintings,” Tobio clarifies.

“They’ve been brought into storage for now. The ones that have been sold will be distributed to their new owners tomorrow. I’ll be arranging transportation for the ones that did not sell tomorrow so they can be returned to you safely,” Atsumu explains, hoping to soften the blow that some did not sell at all.

“Do they have to be returned to me?” he asks softly, looking away.

“Uh.” That brings Atsumu up short. “Would you want something else?”

“Like I said, I don’t need them anymore,” he explains.

While the words themselves ring rude to Atsumu’s ear, all he hears in Tobio’s tone is defeat.

“Why not?” Atsumu asks before he can stop himself.

Tobio looks away and crosses his arms. “It’s personal.”

Atsumu has a pretty good idea of what the personal matter is from the recent changes in Tobio’s instagram and today’s behavior. Atsumu can throw out a guess and ascertain if he’s right by the reaction Tobio gives. But, oddly enough, he wants to leave this encounter feeling liked more than feeling right. Weird.

“My bad, I didn’t mean to pry,” Atsumu lies. “How about I get you a coffee and we can discuss alternative arrangements?”

Perfect recovery, if he does say so himself. Smooth as silk.

Tobio yawns, his mouth open wide and uncovered. A small cute noise emits from the back of his throat. “Okay.”

Atsumu abruptly turns on his heel and leads Tobio from the room. His no-good traitorous cheeks warm at the thought of waking up to that noise and sleepy face in the morning. He feels like he’s lost a round in a game only he’s aware that they’re playing.

Touché, Tobio. Touché.

  
They pop into a bar just outside the gallery. The counter is busy with people gulping drinks and heading on their merry way. Atsumu ignores the look the man behind the register gives him when he requests a table in his barely passable Italian.

He requests a cappuccino for himself, nudges Tobio with his elbow, and asks, “Sweet or bitter?”

“Sweet?” Tobio answers unsurely, squinting up at the menu.

Atsumu’s sure that Tobio could certainly read the menu and draw his own conclusions, but this way is simply more efficient. He orders Tobio a caffè con panna and leaves it at that.

They take their seats at a tiny two-top tucked under a street facing window. There’s a radio show playing behind the counter. The clacking of cups and saucers being loaded into a dishwasher echoes towards the front. A steam wand spurs to life and gurgles into the milk as it froths. Unsurprising, the warm air of the bar is thick with the scent of freshly ground coffee beans and brewed espresso.

True to his word, Atsumu starts off with, “So, what do you want to happen to the unsold pieces?”

Tobio shrugs, using his fingers to comb his hair back into the center of his forehead and part it down the middle again. “Is there another place I can donate them to?”

“I’m sure there is. . .” Atsumu starts carefully, noiselessly tapping his finger on the underside of the table. “. . .I could make some calls, if you’d like. I’m sure there are a lot of people interested in your work.”

“Sure.” Tobio tugs at his shirt collar and cracks his neck. He then forgoes the niceties and undoes his silk tie altogether. He bunches it up and stuffs it into his suit jacket pocket. He shrugs off the jacket, undoes the top button of his shirt and the tiny buttons on his cuffs before he shoves the sleeves up to his elbows with a sigh of relief.

Atsumu finds himself sighing, too. He leans in, both forearms on the table, diving headfirst into blue eyes. He asks, “So, you don’t mind if I take them off your hands?”

A blink of confusion. “Not really.”

Their drinks arrive in tendrils of steam from fluffy foam and gentle clunks of ceramic on wood. Atsumu encircles his cup with both hands, lets the heat sink in, and lifts it languidly to his lips. Tobio, on the other hand, looks down at the tiny cup containing fresh whipped cream atop espresso as though it is a child asking if he is its father.

“Why is it so small?” Tobio asks.

Atsumu huffs a laugh and sets down his drink. “In this rare case, size _doesn’t_ matter. Try it, it’s good.”

He gives Atsumu a dubious look and struggles with the too-small handle before curling his fingers around the rim. He takes a sip and sets the cup back down. Whipped cream clips to his lip. He licks at it as he shifts in his seat and pads down his pockets.

Atsumu thanks whatever deities guided him onto this moment (probably his mother). He effortlessly plucks a small folded handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and offers it to Tobio. “So? What do you think?”

Tobio accepts the handkerchief hastily with both hands and dabs the remaining cream from his face. He gives the drink a look of newfound respect and says, “It’s good.”

Never one to hesitate pushing his luck, Atsumu nudges his drink towards Tobio. “Wanna try mine?”

“Hm.” Tobio considers it for a moment, gears turning gently, but he takes the cup and sips. He gives a little shrug as he returns it. “Not bad.”

Now we’re in business, Atsumu thinks. He leans on one hand and feigns a wistful glance out the window. “My ex loved Italy. He always joked about us going on our honeymoon here one day.”

(As if Atsumu has ever entertained the idea of marriage.)

He lets his knee rest against Tobio’s under the table. They both have too much leg for the table to begin with.

Tobio remains impassive and takes another sip of his own drink. He doesn’t pull away from the contact. He asks, “What happened?”

Atsumu watches Tobio as a gambler might review their hand, looking for tells while minding his own. “Nothing big.” He shrugs and gives a little sigh of acceptance. “We met when we were teenagers and we became different people.”

It’s only half the story, but it’s close enough to home that Atsumu gives a bitter smile before he washes it away with a slurp of cappuccino.

Tobio’s brow is pinched. He taps the side of his little cup with this forefinger. “People are always changing though. Does that mean nothing can last?”

“Lasting is a choice,” Atsumu explains with borrowed words. “One both people have to be on board with.”

“Yeah . .” says Tobio, with that drawn-out reluctance to admit he agrees. There’s a pause. The tapping stops. “It’s stupid.”

Atsumu quickly prompts, “What is?”

“When he left, I decided I didn’t want to see him anymore,” Tobio explains. He stares into the remnants of his drink. He waves one hand like he’s brushing dust from the table. “So I’m giving them all away. Thought it’d be easy.”

Oh.

Atsumu sees his pain. He’s clawed away at Tobio’s defenses and ripped off the bandage to see the wound still oozing.

“That’ll be the least of your worries, alright?” Atsumu promises. He covers Tobio’s hand with his own and gives it a light squeeze before pulling back.

“Thank you for your help,” Tobio replies. His fingers curl in on themselves. “And the coffee.”

Atsumu has half his drink left to finish, but he stands up anyway. “I’ll walk you back to the hotel.”

  
It’s a quiet walk between them. The sun has long finished its dip into the horizon. The streets are filled with tourists, street vendors, and restaurant hosts beckoning them over in a mix of languages. A collection of church bells ring as clocks strike eight o’clock. Their songs echo over the buildings, each carrying its own unique tune.

They walk side by side. Atsumu stands tall, his shoulders and chin back, his breathing deep and even. With Tobio’s profile in his peripheral, he sees short hairs that refuse to stay tucked behind his ears. Tobio carries his suit jacket over one arm. One of its dangling arms brushes against Atsumu with each step. Their strides are in tandem. The flow of foot traffic parts for them.

Atsumu thinks he understands what it means to “feel invincible.”

The cobblestone sidewalk ends abruptly, replaced with smooth, creamy stone. The lights beneath the entrance canopy cast them in blush pink. The main doors automatically slide open. A buffet of warm air and a soft, familiar piano melody escape through the doors.

The two of them come to a stop.

“Here we are,” Atsumu announces.

“You’re not coming?”

It’s Atsumu’s hotel too. Earlier, he had hoped to take advantage of that particular convenience, but now he’s got other plans. He gives a reassuring smile and another half-truth, “I’ve got some work to finish up back at the gallery.”

“Oh,” Tobio says. His gaze dips down to the floor and he bites the inside of his cheek. “Good night, then.”

How dare he, really. No one has the right to make mild disappointment so goddamn painful. Atsumu never wants to see that look on his face again.

“Come here,” Atsumu says, closing the distance himself and pulling him into a hug. Tobio’s jacket arm is pinned between them. There’s the afterthought of that morning’s cologne, a brush of five o’clock shadow against his cheek, and the warmth of Tobio’s skin through the back of his shirt.

He talks to keep from having to pull away. “Call me if anything, alright?”

“Okay.” Tobio gives him a single pat on the back.

(They’ll work on his hugs next.)

When they part, there's a small smile on Tobio’s face that pours kerosene onto the flickering flame in Atsumu’s chest.

  
Atsumu makes a couple stops before he returns to the gallery, ring of keys in hand. Being the event coordinator makes it easy to get security to lend you a set. Being a shitty event coordinator creates enough chaos during setup that no one notices when you dip outside to get copies made. He’d gone through all the trouble out of habit; he hadn’t actually intended on hitting this event. This was just the backup plan in case the plans of fine wine and finer company had fallen through.

The building only has exterior cameras monitoring the doors, which would be enough, generally. But earlier that day, Atsumu had cracked the men’s bathroom window. He takes a quick glance to make sure there are no obvious onlookers. He lifts the window and deftly climbs through the opening feet first, landing in the bathroom silently. The motion activated lights flare to life. Atsumu closes the window behind him. Easy.

Next up is the cameras. He makes his way towards the loading zone in the rear of the building. The doors are alarmed. A red light blinks in the lock above the handle menacingly. Atsumu is not deterred. He fishes through the ring until he finds the right key and disables the alarm with a twist of his wrist. Then, he pulls out his multi-tool and slides out the wire cutters.

The building is old and the cameras were added long after it was built. The wires leading to the cameras are protected only by a flimsy plastic case that follows along the baseboard. Little pressure from the cutters and the plastic pops out of place. Snip, the camera goes down.

Atsumu sets a dropcloth down in the loading bay, spread like a picnic blanket.

He pulls a burner phone from his pocket and dials. The call is picked up on the first ring.

Hitoka asks, “Ready?”

“Mhm. Pull the truck around back,” he orders.

“ETA in 5, all’s quiet,” she replies. After a moment, she adds, voice smaller, “Thanks.”

She hangs up.

“It’s not just for you,” Atsumu says.

At last, it’s time for his favorite part - laying hands on the artwork. He hefts Kageyama Tobio’s _Bedsheets_ in both arms, relishing in the texture of the oil paints under his thumbs, rough and unpatterned, a unique topography. He rests the work on the dropcloth and drags his gloved fingertips down the curve of the man’s beautiful body. He fondles the fingers in _Hands in Hair_ with his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. He grasps the ridges that build into the fiery hair with tentative fingertips.

“Can see why he loved you,” Atsumu says. He boops the painting on the nose. “Your loss.”

Atsumu takes all of him. All of the matching pairs of strong, brown hands, every tooth in every smile, each strand of coppery hair, all of the supple limbs, and absolutely every single freckle.

  
A call comes shortly after dawn. He rolls over in his luxurious king-sized bed, gropes along the ornate nightstand for his phone, and puts it to his ear.

He makes sure his voice is thick with sleep as he answers, “ _Pronto._ ”

“. .Atsumu-san?”

Atsumu sits up like he’s been struck by lightning. “Tobio! Good morning.”

“Have you had breakfast yet?” There’s a breeze blowing static into the receiver and the rumble of traffic.

Atsumu wishes he’d been there to join him on the balcony and watch Tobio instead of the sunrise, but he supposes breakfast is the next best thing.

“Nope,” Atsumu replies. He rolls over in bed onto his back and stares up at the empty ceiling. “Is this an invitation to join you or are you just calling to remind me to eat?”

“Both, I guess,” Tobio answers. “Meet me downstairs in twenty?”

Atsumu groans inwardly, he hasn’t even showered. “How about in an hour?”

“Hm, I’ll just start without you.”

His stomach drops and he loudly calls, “Wait! Okay, I’ll be there, alright? Wait for me.”

“Take your time, Atsumu-san,” he answers.

Then, Tobio hangs up.

This man is going to be the death of him, Atsumu swears. He heaves his groggy body out of bed to put himself in order in record speed. It still takes him a solid forty minutes before he emerges from the elevator on the restaurant floor.

It’s a slow morning in the dining room. A hungover couple takes turns nibbling on a single croissant and whining about their various aches. A group of old ladies chatter over a tourist’s sightseeing map. The single bus boy waiting to clear tables leans against the wall in his vest and apron, watching the TV hung on the wall without interest.

Tobio is standing there in a different three piece suit with a half-finished caffè con panna in hand. “Good morning.”

Atsumu could pull the product out of his half-styled hair. “I thought you said you were going to start without me?”

“Didn’t want to,” Tobio says, as if it is as simple as that. He jerks his head over towards the coffee counter. “They have cappuccinos too, if you want.”

“You remembered,” Atsumu replies.

Tobio grumbles, “Don’t look so surprised.”

  
Breakfast is fresh fruit and plain yogurt, runny jam spread on buttered toast, and crunchy cookies. It’s also Tobio’s pained look when he bites into his hard cookie and Atsumu’s laugh. It’s a mutual longing for something more familiar, be it rice or miso or the company of a lover.

It’s ten minutes after Atsumu should have left for the gallery. They sit in front of empty plates and crumbs scattered across the white tablecloth. What’s left in the coffee cups is long cooled.

Atsumu’s fingers playfully drum on the table between them, a prelude to the question hiding behind his smile.

“So. . .” he leads in, one eyebrow cocked, “what’ll you paint now that what’s-his-face is out of the picture?”

Tobio leans forward in his seat, eyes wandering around the room before settling on Atsumu’s hand between them. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“No ideas at all?”

He shrugs.

Then, like a mirror, the TV on the wall behind Tobio displays his face and a censored image of _Bedsheets_ with a red banner declaring Breaking News.

Atsumu’s blood runs cold. Not out of fear of being caught, of course. Hitoka’s the one left with the stolen goods, but he’d given her a couple vetted fences within a few hours drive. She’ll be fine. He just doesn’t want Tobio to know yet. Not so soon.

_“A beautiful collection, tens of thousands of euros worth of art, was stored for a charitable auction yesterday at the Scacalossi Gallery.”_

Atsumu tsks. The news caught wind of the story before he gets a call? Also, he’s truly disappointed in the picture they’ve chosen of Tobio - god, is that from his high school graduation?

“What is it?” Tobio asks.

“Oh, nothing.”

_“Prospective buyers from all over the world came to view and purchase these masterpieces. However, this morning, security arrived to find that every piece by the Japanese artist, Tobio Kageyama, is missing.”_

The pronunciation is clear enough. At the sound of his name, Tobio turns his head towards the screen.

Atsumu slams his palm down on the table.

Tobio’s attention snaps back to him.

“I’ll model for you someday,” Atsumu blurts.

“You will?” Tobio frowns in thought, a hum in his throat. He reaches out and grasps Atsumu’s hand in both of his own. He inspects Atsumu’s fingernails and the blue veins on the back of his hand.

Atsumu is frozen, eyes flitting from the screen and back to Tobio.

_“Investigators have reviewed the camera footage at the suspected time of the incident, however, the cameras had been disabled for an hour and a half window in the middle of the night. At this time, no suspects have been identified.”_

Atsumu’s breath hitches as Tobio turns his hand over and traces the lines of his palm, the touch light and ticklish.

The TV shows footage outside the gallery where an officer is making a statement.

_“The police force will commit to investigating this matter thoroughly and to the best of our abilities. If you have any information about this crime, please reach out to the police hotline. Thank you.”_

The news program segues into the weather.

“Redder than I expected,” Tobio remarks, at last.

All of his breath leaves him in a laugh of relief. He replies, “Oho. Have you caught me red handed?”

The table vibrates as Atsumu’s cell phone rings angrily. He startles and knocks his knee into the table leg. He huffs and snatches the phone up to see the gallery owner’s surname and number on the screen. He dismisses the call with a swipe of his thumb.

The phone begins to ring again.

Tobio pauses his inspection, lifting his gaze. “Are you going to get that?”

“Nah,” Atsumu replies. He dismisses the call again and silences his phone for good measure. Not like they’re going to tell him anything he doesn’t already know.

“Could be important,” Tobio says.

Atsumu smiles. “This is more important.”

Tobio presses his lips together in a firm line. There’s a blush on the tips of his ears and nerves in his voice. He clears his throat.

“So. When can we start?”

It’s Atsumu's turn to take Tobio’s hand. He rubs his thumb over his knuckles. Feels the fine hairs, the little wrinkles, so unlike the rough brushstrokes he produces.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Tobio looks back at him, eyes wide and lips parted and wounded heart bared.

And if this isn’t art, Atsumu isn’t sure what is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> (listen I'm weak for Vonnegut, don't @ me)


	2. Epilogue: Three Years Later

They’re on their way to Tobio’s high school volleyball club reunion. 

Atsumu laughs. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

“You wanted to be a _professional volleyball player_ when you grew up?”

Tobio glares at him.

“It’s not funny.”

“Babe, you have to admit it’s kind of funny. I’ve literally never seen you play a sport.”

The outside of Tobio’s former volleyball club manager’s house is painted a pale yellow and every window is adorned with a window box filled with flowers. They fall into a comfortable silence as they walk up the rock pathway towards the door. Music seeps through the wood, warm and inviting.

Tobio raises his hand to ring the bell and his finger curls away from the button.

“Don’t be nervous,” Atsumu murmurs. He gives Tobio a peck on the cheek.

Tobio nods and heaves a sigh. He presses the button.

The door swings open and a beautiful, black-haired woman in glasses stands there wearing a smile and grace. She says, “Kageyama, long time no see.”

“Shimizu-san, thank you for having us.” Tobio starts, bowing at his waist. He straightens and presents Atsumu. “This is my boyfriend, Miya Atsumu.”

Atsumu beams. “Nice to meet you.”

“I think I’ve seen your face before,” Shimizu alludes. She pushes up her glasses and steps aside to allow them entrance. “Please, come in and make yourselves at home. You two are the first ones to arrive.”

They step inside and toe off their shoes. 

Shimizu leads them into the dining room. And there, framed in the center of the wall, is _Hands in Hair_.

His instincts scream to grab Tobio by the arm and run. Instead, he glues a smile on his face and exclaims, “Oh! Tobio, isn’t that one of yours?”

Tobio’s face scrunches up in confusion, blinking at the painting.

“Are you surprised?” Shimizu asks Tobio. She has her hands on her hips and a look of pride on her face. “My fiancée flew all the way out to Italy to buy that at an auction for me. It’s my favorite.”

“But it was stolen the night of the auction,” Tobio explains. “All of my works were.”

Shimizu’s smile falls from her face. “What?”

And then, Hitoka enters the room carrying a tray of refreshments, locks eyes with Atsumu, and promptly drops them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Roundabout" by Yes plays in the background and To Be Continued flashes across the screen. lol
> 
> A couple of my friends read the fic and were like, "Does Tobio ever find out??" So, this is when that happens. Hitoka also immediately caves under Kiyoko's stare and spills everything. Don't worry, their partners both still love them. :D
> 
> Tobio's reaction to hearing that Atsumu steals art as a hobby and is just like "Stupid, what if you got arrested?" Tobio would say he wouldn't bail Atsumu out of jail, but he totally would. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
